Poets on Sports



By: Eric Morris

I mean, I don’t want to sound immature or like someone who holds a grudge (okay I do hold an immature grudge), but the thought of LBJ returning to Cleveland to face the Cavs tonight just makes me want to punch something defenseless, like a watermelon or whatever. I mean, it’s been three freakin’ years, but my teeth still clench to near breaking and my heart pumps crude oil. My grudge is a healthy grudge (healthy in terms of grudges, not my own psychological wellness—that’s for another day).

Let me put this into perspective: I’m not even really that invested in the NBA or basketball, but I nurture my myopic grudge against LBJ like a lioness nurtures her cubs. And whenever the Cavs (who admittedly blow) face the Heat, we turn primal in our rage, my grudge and I. We have purpose (a shallow one, but hey) and we have moxie. My petty grudge and I are beings of principal. My ridiculous grudge and I are Midwesterners (like you were supposed to be, Lebron!) and if we didn’t have loyalty, we would have nothing. My senseless grudge and I ache with a simple, base desire to see failure in another human being (it’s LeBron, if that wasn’t clear).

My grudge and I don’t have million dollar shoe deals or Samsung commercials or a mansion on South Beach (where my grudge and I will not take our talents!). My grudge and I haven’t won multiple gold medals, back-to-back NBA championships, or numerous MVP awards. My grudge and I, however, have our integrity (in your face!). We are singular in our focus, strong in our resolve, and proud in our stubbornness.

I understand, as does my grudge, that I should be over it (we are so not over it). It’s been three years. Three years! We’ve reelected a president, discovered twerking (and looked it up on Wikipedia to verify), started wars, ended wars, and survived the Mayan Apocalypse. So tonight, I’ll probably tune-in to the game for a bit to cheer against Lebron (futilely, I’m sure) and then refocus myself on the world’s greater issues, like tryptophan and football and food comas and football. I will remind myself that it’s only a sport, a game, in the spirit of competition. Then, I’ll let it pass (who am I kidding?) like water through a sieve.

My grudge, though, will be whispering in my ear: This. Is. Bigger. Than. Sports.

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